coffee mishap
by deceptivelycomplex3925
Summary: Previously a multi-chapter fic that I turned into a large one-shot. Complete.


**Alright, so I decided to just turn this into a one-shot, because I didn't really have any concrete ideas of where this was going to go anyway, so I left it open for your lovely little imaginations. Maybe one day in the future I'll write something a bit longer for our two ladies. Until then, I hope you enjoy this. **

**Also, it's not ever explicitly explained in this, but Stephen didn't file for a divorce (Miranda ****_told_**** him she wanted one) in Paris and Andy never walked away from her either.**

_Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. She's totally going to fucking fire me. _

Andy sprints down the hallways of Runway – non-gracefully – juggling bags of Hermes scarves, boxes of Dolce &amp; Gabanna skirts, and Miranda's coffee, while probably sweating clean through her blouse – at least it was somewhat transparent. She was _so_ late.

As she rounds the last corner before "Miranda's hallway," some twiggy woman dressed in a suit decides to suddenly materialize and Andy collides straight into her. Miranda's coffee – her surface-of-the-sun hot coffee – goes spewing everywhere, 'everywhere' meaning all over Andy's _seriously thin _silk blouse, effectively burning the ever loving shit out her milky white skin.

"_Fuck!" _

She's unable to keep the profanity from tumbling out and frantically rips off the ruined item of clothing – which is really quite difficult since she doesn't have any free hands to do so – until the twig, after checking to make sure her own outfit was unharmed, moves to help Andy by grabbing the boxes and bags and putting them on a table nearby.

She sifts through them to make sure not even a drop of coffee had dared to blemish the items within and then turns to Andy. Her eyes go unceremoniously wide.

"Your – um, I thin – I think you need to go to the hospital."

Andy frees herself of the blouse, not caring that she's putting on _quite_ the show (this was a place of fashion, these people saw half naked women all the time, right?) when she glances up at the little piece of -

"_No._ I think _you_ need to get _me_ another coffee for Miranda before _she_ fires me for _your _clumsiness." The unadulterated rage laced in her sentence is enough to make the stammering woman nod and scurry down the hallway, heels clacking with every step.

_Wow, is that how Miranda feels all the time?_ It's kind of liberating having that 'b-b-b-b-ut' effect on another person.

Andy knew it wasn't the woman's fault – but she had just had her first layer of skin burned off not even a minute ago so 'polite, meek Andy' could really just go fuck herself.

In her blinding pain, Andy's brain is thankful the barista would know the correct order once the twig said it was for Miranda, otherwise Andy was probably going to kill someone.

Her chest starts aching so badly she has to lean up against the wall in order not to pass out. She thinks maybe she should go to the hospital.

She thinks maybe she should also at least _try_ to cover herself.

These people may see half naked women every day, but Andy wasn't a size 32A.

She awkwardly, and very, very lightly folds her arms over her lacy black La Perla clad chest.

It's in that moment she realizes, surprisingly, that there had been no one in the hallway but her and the woman she was now forever going to deem as 'twig'.

There are tears burning behind the lids of her eyes and she screws them shut because she was _not_ going to cry while only wearing a skirt and bra. She had to keep at least _some_ of her dignity; and she had cried enough inside these walls.

Just as she was about to shuffle her way to The Closet – even though she was late, she was not going to walk into Miranda's office without a shirt on. Miranda'd surely toss her out the window – Nigel comes around the corner looking properly exhausted.

"Six – wha – why are you naked?" He arches an amused eyebrow before they furrow into concern and he frowns.

"What happened to your chest?"

Before she can respond, he wraps an arm around her waist and guides her down the hallway. He takes off his vest and drapes it over her shoulders – it wasn't much, but at least now no one could get an eye full.

Andy's starting to take in short, staccato breaths once they reach Nigel's office and he helps her down into a chair before carefully removing the vest.

Andy inhales sharply when the fabric rubs against the angry red blotches of her chest and the tears that she had so furiously tried to keep at bay spill over and run down her cheeks.

_God, this is so embarrassing. And Miranda is going to murder me. _

Nigel examines her chest and grimaces.

"Six, I really think you need to go to the hospital, these could be second degree burns."

"No. No, Nigel, I am so late. Just – please go get me another shirt from The Closet and I'll be fine. Seriously."

Andy gives him a pleading look and then after a painstakingly long couple of seconds he relents and leaves his office, shutting the door behind him.

Andy lets out a well over due groan and bows her head. She blows a little on her chest and then quickly decides that's the worst idea ever. She's about to burst into an even more well-deserved crying fit when her phone rings.

A ringtone designated for only one person bounces off the walls of Nigel's office and echoes loudly in Andy's ears.

Shit_._ Shit, shit, _shit_.

Andy fumbles for her phone in the pocket of her slacks and flips it open.

"Andréa, is there some reason my coffee was just delivered by an asthmatic, blubbering woman?" Miranda's soft voice permeates Andy's ear drum and travels into every single one of her nerve endings, violently rattling them. A resounding shiver splits down her spine.

She's gotta give that girl credit though; that was fast.

"I – I'm so sorry, Miranda I – I ha – "

There's an impatient sigh on the other end of the phone and Andy shuts up.

"Get here. _Now._" The line disconnects.

"Well, shit." Andy breathes out.

She hyperventilates for a good minute or so and is contemplating whether or not suffocation would be a better way to go than to be on the receiving end of Miranda's wrath when Nigel walks back into the room carrying exactly the same blouse she had on before.

Only this one is in a deep red. She's thankful for that, and the fact that it wasn't low cut, so the fierce redness of her chest wouldn't be seen. He also has an ointment of some kind. Andy reaches for the blouse and Nigel unscrews the bottle's cap.

"Here. I'm not really sure what it is, but I found it in the first aid ki – yes, we do have one of those," he counters at the face Andy makes. He wiggles it in front of her and she scrunches up her face.

"If you don't know what it – " Nigel arches an eyebrow. "Ok, ok. Yeesh. Hand it over." Anything to numb this pain.

Squeezing a very small blob of the pasty white goo on her index finger, she very carefully, almost comically, begins massaging it into her burned skin. Her eyes roll back in her head and she slumps in the chair as instant relief washes over the area she had applied the goo to.

"Oh my _God_."

She applies a more generous amount and after basking in the liberation of pain for an amazing couple of seconds, she realizes she needs to haul ass to get to Miranda before she actually _did _fire her.

She thanks Nigel profusely and after putting on the shirt (a little less hastily as when she had taken it off – but not by much) she sprints down the halls.

If she kept going like this, she was going to have calves like a Hungarian shot putter by the end of the week.

As she opens the glass doors to the outer office, she mentally braces herself for the verbal evisceration she knows she's about to undergo. Emily looks up and smirks. She slides an imaginary knife across her throat.

_Pretty much_.

Andy goes to her desk to set down all the bags and boxes she had been carrying when she realizes she doesn't have anything in her hands.

_Oh, you have got to be fucki - _

_"_Andréa."

_Goddamn it._

Where was the huge hole in the ground that would swallow her up and take her…someplace _not_ here? She could really use a vacation anyway. But oh no, apparently, today the universe wanted to use Andy as its own personal puppet. So, Andy's legs begin putting one in front of the other, slowly moving her further into Miranda's office.

Miranda's sat at her desk, stocking clad legs crossed, glasses dangling from her fingertips as she gently plays them across her lips. Her eyes are unwaveringly, unapologetically roving up and down Andy's body.

_Jesus. Had that look always been so…so _sultry_?_

Andy is suddenly very warm and her chest – which up until that point had been relatively free of pain – begins to burn and itch with a vengeance. She swallows audibly and squirms, deciding her shoes are extremely interesting. Miranda smirks at that, unseen by Andy, and places her glasses on her desk.

"Close the door and sit." Andy, her body again moving at its own accord, turns, closes the door, and walks to sit down in one of the chairs in front of Miranda's desk.

She begins chewing her lip – a nervous habit she has never been able to kick – and watches as Miranda's eyes flick to the action and linger there for a second before finding her eyes once more.

Everything about her is pure predator today.

_Oh my God, she's going to kill me. That's why she had me close the door. To mute the sound of my screaming – not that Emily wouldn't gladly help. She's sizing me up and then after she's torn every last shred of my self-respect to pieces she's going t -_

Miranda's voice cuts into her thoughts.

"Well, go on then."

Miranda flicks her wrist in an offhanded sort of manner and Andy, mouth open, and eyes wide from the direction her previous thoughts had been going, can do nothing but stammer out an ever so eloquent 'uh'.

Miranda rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair.

"I assume you have a perfectly good reason for being late, having some _woman_ deliver my coffee to me, and forgetting the scarves and skirts I specifically asked you to pick up."

_Well, god damn it all to hell. _So she _had_ seen that. Well, of course she had. She's fucking Miranda Priestly. She sees, hears, _knows_ all.

And wait, she actually wanted to hear an explanation? Why was there no verbal evisceration? Was hell freezing over?

Well, if anyone were to do it…

Andy wrings her now sweaty hands together and wipes them on her black slacks, feverishly thinking of a lie that would get past Miranda's razor sharp scrutiny. The woman could detect falseness from a mile.

Accepting that, she looks directly into Miranda's gorgeous, _gorgeous_ blue eyes and says, "That woman who delivered your coffee? She – she um, or rather _I_, ran into her and your coffee spilled and um, you needed your coffee so I mad – she went to get you another one."

Andy has to fight the urge to grab that weird looking vase on Miranda's desk and beat herself over the head with it. Miranda narrows her eyes.

"And why were you unable to perform that task?"

"Because _your_ coffee burned my chest." _Crap_. She hadn't meant for that to sound as accusatory as it did. But, it _was_ because of the fact she _insisted_ on scalding hot coffee that her chest was now throbbing painfully.

Miranda's eyebrows shoot up in what Andy can only describe as amusement and glances at her chest before sniffing and looking down at her desk to the various photos scattered across it.

"And are you all right?" Her voice is as neutral as ever.

Andy's brain stalls. _What?_

"Y-yeah. I mean yes, I'm fine." She lies. Miranda looks up.

"Andréa, if you're burnt badly you should go to the hospital."

Yep. Hell had definitely frozen over. Her voice couldn't have sounded _tender_, right? That had to be Andy's totally jumbled brain making that up. Had to be.

"N-no. No, really, Miranda, I'm fine. Nigel gave me some ointment to put on it."

Miranda doesn't look convinced. Which is only proven further when she says,

"Let me see."

At that, Andy's brain shuts down completely and her eyes bug out of her head.

This woman had surprised Andy more than any other person she had ever met and she was demonstrating that with utmost efficiency today.

Yeah, Miranda is one of those people who deals with those half naked women all the time, but this is _Andy_. This is her _assistant. _She did realize that Andy would have to remove her shirt? Right?

She splutters a half coherent refute and Miranda rolls her eyes again and stands up.

"Oh, for God's sake, Andréa. Close your mouth. I'm asking you to take your blouse off, not _strip_ for me."

_Oh. My. God. _And if it registers to Miranda how that had sounded, she doesn't show any signs of it.

"M-Mi – " She was going to, attempting to repeat that no, she was fine when Miranda promptly turns and walks into the bathroom in the corner of her office. She leaves the door open.

After Andy doesn't follow for a long couple of seconds – she's completely rooted to her chair – Miranda sticks her head out of the door and quirks an eyebrow.

"Andréa, that wasn't a question."

Andy's mouth flaps like a guppy and Miranda smirks again (Andy totally seeing it this time) before she disappears behind the wall.

_Ok, this is fine. Totally fine. I mean she's just making sure that I'm ok so she can't get sued…it had been her coffee…that makes sense…right? There has to be another reason for this; she can't actually be concerned about my health. I'm her assistant. A very replaceable, mundane, clumsy assistant. _

Andy sighs.

_And sadly, that's all I'll ever be._

She hadn't realized she had been walking until she was only a few feet from Miranda, arms crossed over her dark blue blazer. She had closed the door behind them and Miranda was now looking at her expectantly. She was even lightly tapping her foot.

"Really, Miranda I – "

Her arched brow halts Andy mid-sentence. She exhales, averting her eyes to the wall just to the right of Mirada's elbow and slowly begins inching her blouse up.

The searing pain that follows the brushing of the fabric over her chest is what reassures her this is actually happening…that this wasn't some kind of dream. She had been half-convinced it was.

It also dwarfs the utter embarrassment she knows she should be feeling for _taking off her blouse _in front of her boss. In front of _Miranda_ _Priestly_.

Andy hisses in pain and once the blouse is completely removed there's a soft gasp; the sound much closer than she had been expecting.

Andy opens her eyes to see that Miranda has now moved so that she's only half a foot away from her. She's staring intently at her chest and after a few very long seconds, Andy starts to fidget.

Just as she's about to say something, _anything_, Miranda reaches a hand out and lets it ever so gently hover over her skin.

And even though her chest is already burning, she can _feel _the heat from Miranda's hand. It's almost as if she wants to touch her skin, but is too afraid.

It would take next to nothing for that to actually happen. And Andy wanted her to. She wanted her to so badly.

_Touch me._

The thought is like a whisper that gradually ends up as a screaming plea.

_It won't hurt. Please…please, just. Touch. Me._

Andy had stopped breathing by that point. She actually had stopped breathing when that soft gasp had left Miranda's lips.

She wasn't sure if it had been because of the severity of the burn or the fact that she had chosen to wear a more revealing bra today (courtesy of The Closet, of course).

She looks down at Miranda's hand and then back up to see the older woman biting her bottom lip and Andy's instantly enthralled because she's never seen Miranda do something as ordinary as biting at a bottom lip before.

Miranda's eyes traverse down Andy's torso, from her chest, to her stomach, and lower. There her eyes linger until suddenly her eyes snap back up and Andy's stomach constricts at the intensity in Miranda's gaze.

It's incredibly _wanton_.

Which is ridiculous because that couldn't be true.

_At all._

Andy's eyes move to Miranda's lips and though they're very small and quite average, on Miranda they were magnificent, plump, and undeniably sexy. Miranda made _everything_ sexy.

Andy hadn't realized they were but inches away from each other. Andy could feel her heartbeat in the soles of her feet.

She could feel the sizzle in the air, the undeniable spark that would set aflame if she were to lean just a few inches forward.

Time didn't exist. For all Andy knew, it had stopped the moment she had closed the bathroom door.

Miranda's subtle perfume, that scent that was so uniquely _her_ was now the only thing Andy could smell. It was consuming her, devouring her, and completely _turning her on._

Suddenly, there's a clearing of a throat and Andy jumps back with a tiny squeak.

How long had they been staring at one another?

When she looks up Miranda's no longer making eye contact. Her hand has dropped down to her side. Her voice is at an almost whisper.

"I don't think you're too badly burnt. I do however think you should go home." Andy's about to protest when Miranda holds up a hand.

"No." Her eyes find Andy's again.

They're void of any emotion and Andy's heart falls to the floor. Her walls are up and the 'Ice Queen' persona was once again in place.

"Go home, Andréa."

With that she opens the door and walks out, leaving Andy shirtless and feeling utterly gutted.

#

That night, Andy decides she deserves a carton of cookie dough ice cream and a marathon of NCIS.

She's up on the sofa, wearing her favorite pair of ratty sweatpants, Northwestern sweatshirt, wrapped up in a fleece blanket. She briefly wanders why the hell it's so cold in her apartment and then remembers she had turned the AC down low to see if that would help soothe the burn on her chest.

She actually had gone to the hospital once Miranda had…dismissed her and they had given her some pain medication and some ointment (much like what Nigel had given her) and told her to apply it as needed.

She was pleasantly pain free, after taking one of the pills and lathering her skin in ointment, and was half asleep when her phone suddenly went off. She was too disoriented to comprehend the connotation of the shrill ring tone.

She groans and sits up, groggy. She reaches for her phone on the coffee table and almost drops it when she sees the screen.

Miranda was calling her. Miranda was calling her and it was almost _midnight_. Was she going to reprimand Andy for earlier? Was she going to fire her? Over the phone?

Gulping, and now slightly shaking, Andy slides the lock button and tentatively puts the phone to her ear.

"H-hello, Miranda?" She didn't mean for that to sound like a question, and she certainly didn't mean for it to sound so mousey.

"Really, Andréa, your eloquence today is just baffling."

_Damn it. _Andy cringes and sinks deep into the corner of her couch, dropping her eyes to her lap. She opens her mouth to murmur an apology when she straightens abruptly and feels her blood begin to simmer.

_This woman woke me up from what could have been an amazing fucking sleep, I'm not at work, and now my fucking chest hurts. _

"Miranda, it's late and I don't particularly feel very well, what can I do for you?"

There's a pregnant pause on the other end and Andy's stomach twists. Miranda was still her boss. _Shit_.

If Miranda's call hadn't been to fire her, it certainly would be the reason now. A few more seconds pass and an apology is on the tip of Andy's tongue but Miranda softly clearing her throat makes her stay quiet.

She was not prepared for the words that followed.

"_Nothing_. There is nothing you can do for me, Andréa."

The line disconnects.

Andy stares at the phone, incredulous.

What did that mean? What in the _hell_ did that mean? Why had Miranda sounded _disappointed_? Why hadn't she berated Andy for talking that way toward her? Why had she called this late if she wanted nothing from her?

Again, why was there no hole to suck her up into oblivion?

Andy groans again, this one laced with more frustration and falls back into the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling.

Up until this moment, she had avoided allowing her brain to think about, to analyze and dissect, what had transpired that morning. She hadn't wanted to even try to understand what that…encounter meant. Maybe she had hallucinated the whole thing, pain does that to people, doesn't it?

But then again if it had been a delusion she wouldn't be here biting her nails wondering why in the hell the tone of Miranda's voice was making her stomach feel as if someone had just dumped a bucket of butterflies in there and they were furiously trying to find their way out.

Andy sighs.

She'd known for a while about her..._crush_. It seemed no matter how callous the remarks, how cutting the insults, uttered by those perfectly glistening lips, everyone fell in rapture at Miranda's feet. Including Andy.

And for a while, she didn't really know if it was just out of awe and admiration for the editor that she felt this sort of affinity and, dare she say it, _affection_ or if she really was _in love_ with her.

It was almost laughably easy to have a major girl crush on Miranda. Hell, Emily had been doing it since she started at Runway. That's how most of the girls got the job; they worship Miranda and the magazine and then will practically act as slaves just to be included and noticed by her.

Miranda makes you want to do better at your job, makes you want to be _perfect _at it. She makes you a stronger, more independent person, even if by doing all of that she tears and tears and tears at you until there's nothing left, nowhere to go, nothing to _be_ but better.

What makes Andy's teeth bite down too hard on her pinky finger, drawing blood, is a very sudden and _loud _realization.

She yelps and shoots up off the couch to run her finger under cold water. There was already the faint coloration of a bruise forming. She glances up at her reflection in the mirror.

Baggy chocolate eyes, ratty hair and pale skin reflect back at her and aside from her disheveled appearance she looked the same, she _was_ the same. But, on the inside her mind was reeling with a cacophony of snow white hair, piercing blue eyes, alabaster silk skin.

She didn't want to be perfect at her _job_. Not for the editor, not for the 'Dragon Lady' not for the 'Ice Queen', _no_.

She wanted to be perfect for _Miranda. _

_#_

Andy wasn't really sure why she was even in bed. It's not like she was actually sleeping, like she _could _sleep.

Oh no, all hopes of getting even an hour of shut eye had been stamped into a flat pile of dust in the ground.

Every time she closed her eyes she would successfully get minutes of unperturbed, blissful rest and then suddenly images of perfectly unblemished porcelain skin, red, almond-shaped lips, eyes of liquid aquamarine, intense and unbridled, and soft, almost whisper-like words would bombard her brain, seeping into every nook and cranny, permanently tattooing themselves into her mind.

Andy's eyes shoot open as those images again decide to reappear and she nearly screams with frustration.

She kicks her feet against the mattress like a petulant child and smashes the heels of her hands into her probably _seriously_ blood shot eyes.

_Well, fuck this. _

Andy swings her legs over the edge of the bed and glares at the clock, silently hoping her stare would burst it into flames. It read 2:34.

Deciding there really was no use in going through another round of attempted sleep, she pads into the bathroom and turns the knob on the shower.

As the steam begins to waft and float around the small room, Andy sighs and strips off her pajamas. She had no idea how today was going to go and in all honesty she wasn't really sure how Miranda was going to act.

Not knowing how Miranda was going to act in any given situation was probably one of the things she was most familiar with – that woman was a walking surprise – but this situation was wholly different.

There wasn't a problem with Miranda's coffee, there wasn't a wardrobe malfunction or a crappy paragraph in the magazine that needed to be re-written. This was…Andy didn't even know how to categorize it…would this be personal?

Andy snorts. Miranda? _Personal_? With _Andy_? Yeah, right.

So, what the hell _was_ that phone call?

Andy steps into the shower and instantly the only thought that fills her mind is how amazingly _wonderful_ the hot water feels on her skin. She uncurls her arms that had been crossed over her chest and allows the water to cascade down the front of her body.

Then and only then does she remember why she had crossed her arms in the first place as her cry of pain reverberates off the tiled walls.

"God_damn_ it!"

Andy flies back against the cold tile behind her and hunches over as pain after wave of pain hits the now inflamed patch on her chest. She doesn't realize she's crying until her body begins to shake with each sob that leaves her open mouth.

_Why does everything have happen to me? Jesus. _She was so tired, so _so_ _tired_ and all she wanted to do was curl up in a ball in her bed and sleep. Forever.

But, no. She couldn't do that could she? Because Miranda fucking Priestly now currently lived in every fucking corner of her goddamned mind. She was _furious_ and her sobs turn into shouts as she slides down the cool, damp enamel.

_Miranda Priestly. Miranda Priestly. Blue. __A black skirt hugging curvaceous hips. Red, glossy lips moving in time with velvet soft words. A white forelock being swept aside by a perfectly manicured hand. Miranda. Miranda. Miranda._

"_Stop_!"

Andy screws her eyes shut and slams her fist into the object closest to her. Which just so happens to be the tile wall encasing her bathtub.

Which sends an unbearable wave of pain through her hand all the way up to her shoulder blade. Again, she cries out and cradles her now pulsating, swollen hand against her inflamed, and aching chest.

She can't stop the tears as they roll down her cheeks, off her body, and into the stream of water that flows down the drain and into darkness.

_God_, she was pathetic.

Not only did she burn her chest with a cup of _freaking_ coffee, wasn't able to sleep tonight because thoughts of her self-centered, bitchy, unreasonable, sexy, and completely unavailable boss kept flashing across her brain, had punched a wall made of tile because thoughts of said boss wouldn't get out of her head, but now she was hunched over in the bath tub, completely naked, at 2 in the morning, crying like a blubbering idiot.

Oh, and now she was laughing hysterically. Because what the hell else could she do after that little revelation?

For an hour, Andy alternated from bawling and guffawing until she finally decided she should snap out of it before someone called the police on her and sent her to a mental ward.

She sits up slowly and leans over to turn the shower off.

With her left arm – the one she had punched the wall with – still slung over her chest, she steps out of the bathroom and dries herself off with her one good arm. _How am I supposed to explain _this _to Miranda? _

Andy groans and makes her way into her bedroom. After about four tries of getting her underwear on she huffs and goes about her bra next.

Which is an even _more_ tedious task because she can't get the clasps together.

When she's almost on the verge of tears again she decides to just use her injured hand and endure the pain because really she's about two seconds away from throwing herself out the goddamn window.

Half an hour later she's dressed in a multi-colored tank top (because the skin of her chest was now red and ten times more sensitive than yesterday and she couldn't bear having anything touch it today), black cardigan, dark wash jeans and her favorite pair of Jimmy Choo boots.

She had lathered her chest in ointment and had attempted to wrap her hand in an ace bandage she had found under her bathroom sink. She had no idea how it had gotten there but was incredibly grateful for it. Her cardigan was long enough that unless her sleeve was pulled up, the bandage was invisible.

By the time she had eaten and was on her third cup of coffee, it was 7:00.

Andy closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths and walks out of her apartment, locking the door behind her.

Deciding she was not going chance some grumpy Subway goer bumping into her, she hails a cab.

As she slinks into the backseat, she closes her eyes again and prays she won't have to interact with Miranda much today. Maybe she would give her a thousand menial tasks that require her to not be in the office most of the day. Maybe Miranda wants to avoid Andy as much as Andy wants to avoid her.

And even before she arrives at Runway she knows it's wishful thinking.

#

Miranda hadn't said a word to her all day. She hadn't even looked in her direction.

This wasn't how Andy had anticipated this was going to go.

She was expecting to be called into the dragon's lair, told if any of what had happened the day before were to be found out by anyone but herself and Miranda, she would personally see to it that Andy never saw another paycheck.

Or if she was being completely honest with herself, she half expected her life to be threatened.

But _this_. This ignoring? Andy couldn't take it.

She couldn't take Miranda pretending she didn't exist.

It was just after ten and the upstairs offices were empty. Even the book had been delivered and now it sat opened on Miranda's desk as she flipped through it with steadfast intent.

Andy hadn't known what to do when Miranda still hadn't left a few hours prior. And when the book had arrived she had called her name – her first word to Andy all day – and after Andy had handed over the book to Miranda's outstretched hand, Miranda had told her to stay until she was done.

Andy had nodded her head dutifully.

She'd had been rather surprised that Miranda hadn't said anything about her baggy cardigan…well, actually she wasn't because Miranda hadn't even fucking looked at her once today.

She hadn't even looked at her when Andy had handed her the book.

Or when she told Andy to stay.

She had already had her head bent, eyes dancing over the images in the book, absorbing every little detail, her mind already coming up with something to fix here or something to discard there.

During moments like those, Andy loved to watch the mind of Miranda Priestly work.

She loved to see her eyes glimmer when she came across something she approved of or watch her nose wrinkle is distaste at something she deemed abhorrent.

Watching Miranda _be_ Miranda was quite literally one of the most fascinating things to see but tonight Andy didn't give a rat's ass. She was pissed and she was going to sulk.

She wasn't going to look at Miranda for the rest of the night; if Miranda wanted to ignore her then Andy could sure as hell ignore right back.

So she didn't even so much as glance in the general direction of Miranda's desk for the first half hour.

She had absolutely nothing to do but then she remembered she had bought a new book just the other day and leaned down to retrieve it form her purse. It was some romance novel.

_The Fault in Our Stars._

She snorted softly.

_God_, had she even looked at the title when she bought this?

Andy wasn't sure how it happened but suddenly, after what she was _sure_ was incredible interest in the first chapter, she was hunched over her desk, good hand under her chin, book closed and to the side, Jimmy Choo's on the floor, watching as Miranda chewed on the inside of her lip while her hand worked furiously across a spot in the book.

No doubt ripping someone limb from limb for screwing up something a monkey could probably do effortlessly.

By Miranda's standards, anyway; it more than likely was a bit more complex than that.

But Miranda wasn't the best because she gave out rainbow kisses and unicorn stickers to her employees for less than satisfactory work.

Andy's eyes track the movement of her pen across paper; watch in rapt attention as Miranda's teeth worry at her now bare bottom lip.

It was ridiculously attractive.

She didn't realize how intently she was staring at Miranda's mouth or how decidedly _inappropriate_ her thoughts were going until a quick swipe of Miranda's tongue along that bottom lip of hers elicits a soft moan from Andy's suddenly very dry throat.

It startles Andy so badly that her hand slips from under her chin and she only narrowly avoids breaking her nose.

The loud slap of her palm hitting the desk reverberates off the walls and the sheer silence of the office only exaggerates the volume of it.

Through Andy's spinning mind she only barely hears her name being called. She shakes herself out of her arousal-induced state and pads into Miranda's office, entirely forgetting that she's barefoot.

"Yes, Miranda?"

"Do I pay you so little that you can't afford to buy shoes?"

Andy's brow furrows before sees Miranda's line of vision, her nose crinkled in disdain.

Her stomach drops. _Oh_ _crap_.

"Oh! Um…I'll just…" she points her thumb behind her and turns to haul ass to her desk when she hears Miranda sigh, something exhausted and strained.

"Leave them and sit down." Her forefinger and thumb are massaging at that place between her eyes and her glasses are now on top of the book.

Andy sits, eyes worrying over Miranda's slouched figure.

Miranda never slouches.

"When Caroline was six she burned her hand on the stove," Miranda says, apropos of nothing.

Andy's head jerks up (she'd been watching Miranda's hands play with her glasses) but Miranda's looking at the picture of the twins she keeps on her desk.

Her voice is soft, eyes fond, lost in her memories.

"I was so terrified I drove her to the hospital myself."

Andy's brow jumps up. Miranda could drive? She didn't even think she had her own car.

Miranda chuckles then, something light, something pure. Andy's heart jumps.

"She had to calm _me_ down."

She shakes her head then and she looks so _human_, so _real_ that Andy just kind of stares at her, mouth agape. Andy had only ever seen her so tangible like this once before. And that grey robe and those red-rimmed eyes were forever seared into her memory as something she wishes she could have _fixed_.

Miranda's eyes flicker up to Andy's then, smile still lingering on her lips.

"I do have emotions, Andréa. Contrary to what everyone thinks, I am capable of caring."

Andy moves to say that yes, she knows that but Miranda continues.

"How does it feel today?"

Andy looks down at her chest and her hand, her bad one, flies up to cover the still very red blotches adorning her skin.

Her cardigan sleeve slips down a bit at the action and just as she's about to answer, Miranda cuts her off.

"What happened to your hand?" She sounds concerned again, _worried_.

And Andy doesn't know how to process this Miranda.

"Oh, I um…shower. Tile. Clumsy." Because she really, _really_ doesn't know how to respond around a _caring_ Miranda.

She's looking at her feet when she feels fingers under her chin.

And Miranda's in front of her now, much, _much_ too close and she's smiling at her. It's _soft_, almost affectionate and Andy's eyes glance down to her lips, swallowing, heartbeat rapid and loud enough Andy's sure Miranda can hear it.

"I don't remember you ever being so nervous around me, Andréa."

And her voice is velvet, almost a purr. Her fingers are still under her chin.

"Even when you first showed up here your docility was superseded by your overbearing self-righteousness."

She smirks then, looking more the like Miranda she's used to and Andy's about to make a bold comment when Miranda's thumb skims across her bottom lip.

"Do I make you nervous, Andréa?"

Andy takes in a sharp breath, her gut furling at the sensuality twined within the syllables.

She's always thought of Miranda as a sensual being. It's just never directly been aimed at her before.

And Andy's _wholly_ unprepared for it.

"Yes," she exhales, because yeah, _this_ Miranda makes her nervous. Makes her feel like maybe these stupid feelings she has for Miranda aren't just one-sided. Makes her tingle. Makes her _hope_.

And she watches as Miranda's mouth parts then, watches as her eyes flick down to her own, her thumb now smoothing across both her top and bottom lip forcefully enough that they separate.

"You're young enough to be my daughter," she whispers and Andy's heart jolts because _that's_ acknowledgment of whatever the fuck is happening right now.

"Your skin is soft," Andy breathes, takes Miranda's thumb in her mouth, swirls her tongue around it.

Miranda gasps, eyes glued to Andy's mouth.

"I've only just divorced my husband," it's shaky now, her voice, feeble.

"I wanted to kiss you yesterday," she grabs at Miranda's wrist and her mouth leaves her thumb in favor of pressing a kiss to her palm.

"That would be highly inappropriate."

Andy glances up and sees Miranda watching her, blown out pupils, breath uneven and cheeks pink.

"It would be, yes," Andy concedes, standing, now eye level with Miranda.

She cups Miranda's face.

"We should do it anyway," and she kisses her then, eyes fluttering closed, other hand falling away from Miranda's wrist to rest on her hip.

She feels a moment of lucid cognizance. She's _kissing_ Miranda, touching Miranda's _waist_.

She feels Miranda's own hands tangle in her hair and moans into their kiss, Andy's knees turning to jelly at the sound.

"You're going to be bad for me," she murmurs against Andy's lips.

And Andy thinks it's actually the other way around. She'd sustained a bruised hand and first degree burns because of this woman.

She finds though, as Miranda's hands find purchase at the small of her back, that she doesn't really mind it as much as she probably should.

Miranda's lips taste like the coffee that had burnt her chest and as they travel their way down her neck and then begin to leave feather light kisses against the redness of her breastbone, she finds she doesn't mind at all.


End file.
